


Collecting Kids

by Triscribe



Series: Cousins at Arms [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Adopted Children, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst and Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Ensemble Cast, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Order 66 Happened Differently (Star Wars), Orphans, Refugees, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-27 16:28:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30125625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triscribe/pseuds/Triscribe
Summary: Luminara slowly blinked, and the child peeking out from behind Gree’s legs blinked back.
Relationships: CC-1004 | Gree & Luminara Unduli, CC-5052 | Bly/Aayla Secura, CT-6910 | Razor & Stak, Plo Koon & CC-3636 | Wolffe
Series: Cousins at Arms [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2175468
Comments: 15
Kudos: 89





	1. Forest Green, Lightning Red, Starlight Yellow

_Forest Green_

Luminara slowly blinked, and the child peeking out from behind Gree’s legs blinked back.

“The refugee camp was overfull,” her Commander murmured, dropping one hand to stroke the little nosaurian’s downy feathers. “Kids without families had to make do with scrap pile nests, and, well, we couldn’t just leave ‘em.”

“I see,” Luminara replied, her war-torn heart breaking a tad further. “How many foundlings have been added to our ranks?”

“Only seventeen. We commed a few other units, they’ll try to pick up more.” Because, no matter how much the troopers wished to help the orphans they came across, there was only so much they could do if the younglings didn’t trust them. Adoption only happened if both sides were willing, after all.

“And what is this lad’s name, may I ask?” Careful with her skirts, Luminara crouched, smiling slightly when the nosaurian leaned a little further out.

“Oren,” Gree replied, puffing up proudly. “We negotiated a bit, and he decided he likes ‘Vorpangaid’ for a family name, too.”

“Greenplate,” Luminara murmured, her Mando’a vocabulary greatly expanded since the war took a sharp left turn, and clones began experimenting with last as well as first names. “Very fitting.”

Little Oren grinned at that, revealing rounded baby teeth just barely poking up from his gums. Despite the feathers, nosaurians were a reptilian-based species, and with time his emerging teeth, scales and horns would look truly fearsome. In the meantime, Luminara simply thought him adorable.

“Jedi,” the boy suddenly piped up, pointing to the hilt of her lightsaber. “Like Resa’s?”

“Yes, I am a Jedi,” Luminara answered, casting a curious glance up at her commander.

Gree snorted. “General Jennir was our go-between when the nosaurians asked for help to get off New Plympto; he made friends with their militia’s commander and his family after Order 66, so now there’s a pint-sized youngling who insists people better run the camp the way she says or her Jedi uncle will come straighten them out.”

Amused, Luminara let a slight chuckle escape her. “I see. Well then, young Oren, I suppose you have a Jedi aunt in your corner now, but I better not hear about you taking advantage of that.”

Oren rapidly shook his head, still grinning. Luminara tapped one finger against the soft end of his snout, before standing with the help of Gree’s offered hand. “Now, I suppose we’d best call ahead to Forest Home and make arrangements to expand the youngling center.”

“After you, General.”

_Lightning Red_

“There’s bombs that way.”

Razor flinched with a startled swear, and Stak nearly dropped the pack he’d been about to sling over his shoulders. It took a few moments of scrambling before they looked up.

The pair thought they’d found great cover to rest in and plan the next section of their route back to friendly lines, a bombed out hut made of local stone that just appeared to be another pile of rubble from any distance greater than ten steps. Not until getting right up close could one spot the shadowed opening, which led into a hollow space plenty big enough for two scouts - and one local pipsqueak, apparently.

Wedged between a broken rafter and the former roof, a dark-skinned iridonian with short white hair and tiny horn nubs peered down at them. Evidently, she’d been present the _entire time_ they hashed out a path on the holo-map.

“What kind of bombs?” Stak managed to ask, after getting over his surprise. “And how did you get _up_ there?”

“I climbed,” came the bland answer. “An’ there’s bombs under the ground on top of the cliffs; you can’t see ‘em ‘cause of all the blown up dirt, so you step on ‘em an’ then _you_ get blown up.”

“Minefield,” Razor grumbled. “Yeah, we’re definitely not going that way, then.”

“There isn’t any way else to _go,”_ Stak protested, keeping one eye on the kid perched above them. “We’ve got to warn General Windu about the tunnels they’re digging towards his position, _before_ they start collapsing underneath our anti-aircraft weaponry.”

“Why don’t you just take the Wizard Road?”

Again, their heads jerked up to stare at the youngling. “...what road is that?”

Huffing, the kid wiggled to dislodge herself, then scooted and hopped down the pile of debris like a tooka to come stand beside them. “It’s here, but you can’t see it on your map. Most grown-ups don’t use it, ‘cause it’s a tight fit, but you two should be short enough.”

“Dunno if I should be insulted or grateful,” Razor huffed. “Is it hidden?”

“Yeah. But I can show you. Nothin’ left for me here, anyway.”

Stak grimaced underneath his bucket. “Was this your house?”

“No. Old Lasen just let me sleep in the kitchen if I helped with chores.” The kid shrugged. “She’s dead now, somewhere under here. I put a blue rock on top so the spirit guides can find her tonight.”

“That’s, uh. Good for you.” Razor gave the kid a couple of firm pats on the shoulder, before he stood. “Alright, let’s head out. Don’t want the Imps to catch us in-between here and this ‘Wizard Road’ of yours.”

“I’m glad you spoke up when you did,” Stak mentioned, as he and his brother followed their new guide out of the ruined hut. “Didn’t even see you when we came in here.”

“I’m real good at bein’ sneaky, ‘cause I’m so small.” The kid’s chest puffed out with pride. “But if anybody thinks they can mess with me, I bite ‘em real good!”

“Ha!” He grinned. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Beesyi.” Her cheerful demeanor faded somewhat. “But everybody calls me Runt or Yi’Yil.”

“What, you don’t like nicknames?” Razor asked, as they eased around what was left of the previous day’s battlefield. Scorched armor could be seen poking up out of various rubble piles, some painted with Vod’e colors, others plain Imperial White.

“Not mean ones,” Beesyi muttered back. She hopped up and over a chunk of debris, twisting on the landing to avoid a sharp edge of durasteel.

Stak’s hummed thoughtfully. “Well, we know how important names are, so we’ll use yours. Or maybe ad’ika sometimes, if that’s okay.”

Razor’s made a warning gesture over the kid’s head as she frowned. “What’s that mean?”

“S’just a way to address a kid, like how we brothers call each other vod.”

“...that’s okay, I guess.”

Stak grinned as his brother flashed him a rude sign, followed by the hand signals for _query, action,_ which basically translated to _what the hell do you think you’re doing?_ He made a few signs back, when the kid pulled ahead of them: _child, civilian, protect, evacuate - let’s take her with us._

_Plan, risk, dangerous terrain - that’s a TERRIBLE idea._

_Friendly units, fall in, shinies - other vod’e have their own kids._

Razor’s swift slashing motion showed what he thought of _that_ comparison.

“Hey! You two comin’ or not?”

The pair of scouts scrambled to catch up to their guide, who’d covered a fair bit of ground while they slowed down to hold a silent discussion. Beesyi didn’t appear to have noticed anything besides them falling behind, as she pointed to what looked like an old sewer grate half covered by debris as soon as the pair arrived. “That’s the way in, but I can’t get it open like this.”

“We’re on it, c’mon vod.”

Soon enough, Stak and Razor cleared enough rubble to slide the grate over, flicking their helmet lights on as Beesyi boldly scooted into the dark tunnel without a backwards glance. Thankfully, there didn’t appear to be any other signs of intrusion, and only a few steps further in was a cleft in the wall. Squeezing through would _definitely_ not have been possible if the troopers were even just a touch taller or bulkier.

The twisting, jagged tunnel Beesyi led them through occasionally rose close enough to the surface for daylight to spill down through cracks in the ceiling, and at one point the trio froze when a tank rumbled overhead. Even so, a couple hours later, they made it to the end without any unforeseen complications.

And even better, General Windu’s camp was within sight of the cliff they emerged from, just a few miles further north and across a dried out riverbed.

Razor groaned as he stretched, working out the kinks and cramps from so long in such a confined space, while Stak pulled off his bucket in order to properly grin at Beesyi. She smiled back, before the expression faltered, her eyes glancing between them, the tunnel exit, and the camp in the distance.

“Well,” the kid mumbled. “Good luck, I guess.”

“You wanna come with us?” Both she and Stak whipped their heads around to stare at Razor, who also looked surprised by what he’d just said. “I mean. It’s just, it’s dangerous out here, for someone on their own.”

“...I’m used to it,” Beesyi finally shrugged. “Didn’t really like the orphanage, even before it got blown up. People pretendin’ they care when they don’t, not really.”

“Well, we still owe you for sharing a safe way back with us,” Stak said. “Can’t take off until we’ve had a chance to settle that debt, right?”

Beesyi blinked, a soft smile slowly creeping onto her face. “I guess not.”

“Great,” Razor harrumphed. “Come on, then, it’s not much further.”

_Starlight Yellow_

The rest of the ship had long since emptied of oxygen, and even the bridge was running low by the time someone answered their distress beacon. Mizgrr roused, briefly, at the distant _ker-thunk_ sounds of another vessel clamping onto the airlock. Standing made his head go dizzy, so instead the boy crawled over to the internal communications controls, where he hauled himself into the seat and reached for the correct switches. “H-help... bridge... please...”

He considered warning them of what they’d find in the hall outside, but just, didn’t have the strength. Mizgrr slumped back against the seat, and focused on not passing out. Even so, he lost a bit of time, rousing again at the sound of voices and beeping.

Then the bridge door slid open, releasing a wave of fresh air into the confined space. He gasped, and started to cough, organs desperate to get the oxygen they’d been lacking more and more over the past... hours? Days? He couldn’t say for sure.

Hands curled over his shoulders, and Mizgrr forced himself to pick his head up, to look at the humans he could smell.

He froze at the sight of white armor.

Hissing instinctively, the boy tried to scramble backwards, but there wasn’t anywhere for him to go, especially not once the trooper wrapped armored arms around him. Mizgrr’s claws weren’t sharp enough to get through the black undersuit, let alone hard plastoid, but he still tried. He kicked and scratched and chomped with half-grown teeth, yet the trooper just stood there. Let the boy tire himself out, until Mizgrr hung limply in his grip, panting heavily.

“You good?” An amused voice came out of the helmet. Mizgrr growled. “Not gonna hurt ya, kid. Promise. We’re Republic Alliance, not Imperials.”

“Like that-” Mizgrr coughed, the words catching in his throat. “Like that’s _better?”_ He shifted his glare towards the other troopers in the room, who were _watching,_ and then the ones visible through the doorway, who were- who were-

A keen escaped Mizgrr’s throat. _“Papa.”_

The trooper holding him stiffened, before he slowly knelt, to let Mizgrr’s hindpaws touch the floor. Suddenly released, he staggered forward, managed to make it to the door before collapsing. His father’s body didn’t react, not to him, not to the troopers carefully shifting him from his side to his back, as if the grown togorian was just asleep.

Someone new stepped up to sit beside him, slender fingers stroking down the boy’s back. “What happened, little one?”

If it had been another trooper, Mizgrr would’ve stayed silent. But the scent was twi’lek, not human, and the voice was soft and warm like his mother’s had been, and... and Mizgrr was _tired._

“Pirates,” he mumbled, still staring at his father’s lifeless body. “Papa killed the ones on the ship, but- but they got the rest of the crew- and he couldn’t fix the life support. There wasn’t- there wasn’t enough- he said I’d last longer, on the bridge, and he broke the controls, so I couldn’t- _I couldn’t open the door.”_ Mizgrr had cried for _ages,_ as he sat with his back pressed to the wall, listening to his father’s fading gasps on the other side. He kept praying, to any gods who’d listen, to please send _someone_ before the oxygen was completely gone, the life support system’s last meager offerings diverted solely into the bridge, to him.

They hadn’t. They’d _waited,_ until it was _just Mizgrr,_ until his father was _gone-_

The boy didn’t realize he’d started to cry again, until the twi’lek woman curled herself around him, humming as she ran her fingers through his short fur. Voices murmured over his head, but Mizgrr just flattened his ears and pressed closer to the first source of warmth he’d felt since the whole nightmare began.

When the twi’lek started to stand, he protested, grasping at the edges of her armor. She hushed him, and just scooped Mizgrr up, supporting his weight easily. “It will be alright, little one. I promise. You’ll be safe with us until we get you home.”

“This _is_ home,” Mizgrr sniffled. “Papa said there’s- there’s no home like the starlanes.”

“Well then,” the twi’lek said, and he finally looked up to see her blue skin and gentle smile. “I suppose it is fitting we Star Clan were the ones to find you.”

Another trooper stepped up beside her, one with fancier armor than the others. “Rest of the ship is clear, Aayla, and the boys outside report all the towing cables are secure.”

“Thank you Bly. Come now, little one. Let’s get our medic to look you over, and see if we can’t change your mind over the Alliance being better than the Empire.”


	2. Wolfpack Grey and Cloudweave Camo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolffe barely, _barely_ managed to bite back a groan at the sight of his buir blatantly ignoring the pint-sized pickpocket making off with his credit chit.
> 
> _Again._

_Wolfpack Grey_

Wolffe barely, _barely_ managed to bite back a groan at the sight of his buir blatantly ignoring the pint-sized pickpocket making off with his credit chit.

_Again._

He tried to keep the anger from bleeding out through his steps as he approached the Kel Dor, still idling in front of a merchant’s open-faced stall, but Plo Koon’s obvious amusement as Wolffe stopped beside him probably meant he’d failed miserably.

“I could feel your stomps from across the walkway, Commander,” the Jedi murmured, his facemask twitching. “Just what is it that seems to have upset you?”

“This can’t go on, sir,” Wolffe growled.

“What can’t?”

“You, letting street urchins swipe your credits. You _know_ they’re there, I’m _sure_ of it, but _every time-”_

“Yes, Wolffe.” His buir’s unexpected shift from an amused tone to a grave one pulled the human up short. “I do know. And fifty credits here and there, from the stipend all Alliance officers now receive, Jedi or otherwise, seems the least I can do for such younglings.”

Of course. Of-kriffing-course. Wolffe did his best not to grumble about bleeding hearts as he fell into step with his buir, completing their circuit of the station’s marketplace before heading back to their ship in the hangar bays. “...you do realize, sooner or later you still have to buy that souvenir you promised Comet, which means actually _spending_ some of your credits instead of letting them get stolen.

Plo chuckled, and reached up to ruffle Wolffe’s slightly-longer-than-regulation hair. “Of course, my son.”

Mollified, as he always ended up whenever his buir used that particular term of endearment, Wolffe nonetheless positioned himself to block any further little hands reaching to check the Jedi’s pockets. Thankfully, they managed to return to their hangar without incident.

Boost and Sinker remained out on the town far longer, though the pair did get back in time for dinner. The “mission” the four of them were assigned involved subtle recon, observing the citizens of a space station that rested at the convergence point for three separate hyperlanes. If the locals seemed amenable to the increased trade from clones on shore leave, then the Republic Alliance would adjust timetables to include the place as a valued rest stop for fueling and resupply.

If not, Plo Koon and his oldest sons still got a free vacation out of it.

“I think some of the locals have twigged to our shared faces, Buir,” Sinker commented as he passed around utensils. “At least a few looked worried, but I’m pretty sure that was more over drawing the Empire’s attention than actually having us around.”

“There are more who asked if we were gonna have relatives visiting anytime soon,” added Boost, portioning out their meal onto three bowls, plus a container with an attached straw for Plo to drink from.

“That seems promising,” the Jedi said, humming thoughtfully. “And perhaps we would gain more favor should the local pickpocket population diminish with more vod’e coming and going.”

Wolffe pulled a face, reaching to snag his serving. “Are you sure they’re the kind of ad’e we’d _want_ our brothers adopting?”

“Now now, just because these younglings have found unsavory ways to survive in a home without natural resources of its own, doesn’t mean they cannot blossom into generous souls if given opportunity to grow.”

“Yeah, even your not-so-charming disposition gained an almost pleasant side the longer we spent with Plo-Buir,” Sinker teased, sitting down at the table. Wolffe promptly chucked a spoon at his head, beaning the white-haired clone between the eyes and causing him to collapse back out of his chair with exaggerated howls of pain. Boost practically doubled over from laughing so hard, and even Plo’s shoulders shook with mirth.

The good feelings didn’t last the night, however.

Just about the time all of them were preparing for bed, Plo about to disappear into his quarters, a soft beeping started up. “The proximity alarm?” Boost’s head popped back out of the shirt he’d been in the process of tugging off. “Here?”

“Someone must be outside the ship,” Plo murmured, already heading for the main entrance. Wolffe hurried after him without a second thought, and heard his other Packmates trailing after.

When Plo dropped the ship’s ramp to peer out into the hangar bay, a young tholothian boy nervously darted up it, hands shoving something towards the Kel Dor. Years of battle-honed instinct nearly sent Wolffe to intercept, before he belatedly realized it was his buir’s credit chit, the one stolen just earlier that day. Same kid, too.

“Please take the bad luck back,” the boy begged, offering up the money, eyes wide and mouth trembling. “I didn’t know you were a Jedi, I’m sorry, just _please_ take it back so Avel stops getting worse!”

“Peace, youngling,” Plo murmured as he knelt, large fingers carefully wrapping around the kid’s outstretched hand. “What is wrong? Who is Avel?”

“My sister,” the boy sobbed. “She’s been sick, and Boss Mis’k hasn’t done nothin’, so I’ve been swiping extra creds to get medicine, but as soon as I got back today with yours she started coughing worse than ever and then Boss came in ranting ‘bout a Jedi seen in the market, and he mentioned the weird mask and I realized it was _you_ and I’m _sorry,_ Mum always said stealing from a Jedi’s bad luck but I _didn’t know-!”_

Before Wolffe could blink, Plo stood, still holding the kid’s hand. “Take us to your sister, little one, and I will do my best to help her.”

Gaping, it took a second for the kid to nod and start running, Plo’s longer strides eating up the distance alongside him.

Wolffe, dressed in his sleep clothes with bare feet and no blaster in sight, groaned. “Boost, guard the ship. Sinker, get a medkit and follow as quickly as you can.”

He raced after his buir and the remorseful pickpocket, ignoring his brother’s shout of _“Am I allowed to get shoes first?”_

Intellectually, Wolffe had known pickpockets were fast - they needed to be, in their line of work. But in practice, it honestly surprised him how much he struggled just to keep the kid and Plo in sight, as they left the main corridors of the space station behind in favor of narrow halls and service shafts. The walls went from painted to bare durasteel, doors to living spaces were set closer together, and the fans that drew air from the life support systems became significantly shabbier, some non-functioning altogether.

They finally reached a corridor that resembled a sick mirror image of the marketplace, hut-like structures formed from plating stripped off the walls and floors, leaving exposed machinery behind and walkways just barely big enough for two people to pass one another. The kid’s pace finally slowed somewhat, as he led Plo on a weaving path through the place, and Wolffe was able to catch up thanks to some careful leaps to cut corners. He kept one hand curled around his comm unit, the sole thing he’d grabbed on his way out of the ship, already broadcasting his location back to Sinker. With any luck, the other clone wouldn’t become _completely_ lost in the bowels of the station.

When they reached a particular scrap-assembled hut, the kid didn’t hesitate to duck inside, Plo right behind him and Wolffe bringing up the rear. Any doubts about it being a trap vanished as soon as the threadbare curtain muffled some of the outside noise, and he could more clearly hear the sound of a child’s distressed wheezing.

“Avel!” The kid stumbled over to a blanket on the floor, where a younger child struggled to breathe, curled up on her side. Plo settled himself beside them, and gently eased the girl into his lap. He held her upright, one hand pressed to her chest as the other kept her head from tipping over.

“Breathe with me, youngling,” he ordered in a deceptively calm voice. With each measured rise and fall of the Jedi’s chest, the little girl sucked in what air she could, before coughing it back out.

While his buir focused on that, Wolffe caught the other kid’s attention. “How long has she been sick?”

“A- a long time,” the boy answered, eyes glued to his struggling sister. “Almost since we had to come down here, after Mum died.”

Probably the poor ventilation to blame, then, along with whatever pollutants collected from the rest of the station. “And the medicine you’ve been giving her?”

“S’from Ma’am Gelley’s shop, she says it’s good for cold’s ‘n coughs, but it never helps all that long, just a day or two.”

“What about water? Does she get enough to drink, to eat?”

The kid shot him an incredulous glance. “You look around at all this an’ think _any_ of us get enough to eat?” Wolffe just waited, a single eyebrow raised. “...she gets too tired to chew anything solid. I trade what I can for nutri-slush, and I give her half my water ration, too.”

Outside noise briefly grew louder, before Sinker was kneeling next to Plo, medkit already open. “What do we need?”

“The smallest dose of prednisone you can manage, and an oxygen mask,” their buir replied, still leading the child through one breath after another. “Quickly, Sinker. I can feel her flickering in the Force.”

Despite only having limited experience with playing medic’s helper, the white-haired clone kept his hands steady as he pulled out the requested items, trimming the soft edges of the mask to fit and connecting it up to a mini oxy-pump, squeezing a tenth of the steroid vial’s contents into a hypo. The little girl whined when he gave her the shot, but almost immediately slumped into a boneless heap, only faint condensation inside the oxygen mask indicating her continued breathing.

Her brother practically collapsed himself, leaning against Sinker in his effort to get as close as possible. “Is she- is she gonna be okay?”

“Most likely, yes,” Plo answered, still cradling the smaller child in his lap. “We will need to get her further medical attention, but her Force-presence has stabilized for the moment. You did well in coming to find us, little one.”

“I just-” the kid sniffled, and Sinker looked alarmed, uncertain if he should nudge the boy away or wrap an arm around him. “S’bad luck, stealin’ from a Jedi. I had to fix it.”

Wolffe kept his mouth shut about sneaky Kel Dor ignoring little hands in his pockets, instead focusing on the way Plo had shifted to look consideringly at the two kids. “Buir...”

“You mentioned your mother passed away,” the Jedi said softly. “Is this, Mis’k, the one who takes care of you now?”

“He doesn't take care of nothin’,” the kid muttered, hunching his shoulders. “He only lets us sleep here ‘cause I pay him whatever I can steal, an’ then I gotta steal more for rations.” He suddenly looked up half-panicked again. “You said- she’s gonna need more med stuff, but I don’t have creds for-”

“You don’t need credits,” Plo cut him off, soothing. “You’re with us.”

Wolffe worked _very hard_ to keep his mouth shut. He did give in to the temptation to glare at Sinker, however, seeing as the other man was grinning up at him in a _distinctly_ unhelpful manner.

_Cloud-weave Camo_

Let it be known, Quinlan Vos managed to go _five years_ without being given a command position or getting saddled with the title of “General”, and he would’ve been _quite happy_ to keep such a record going.

Then Wilde practically fell into his lap, with Gaslight and Hijink tumbling after.

(Aayla laughed for ten minutes straight when he finally, grudgingly, admitted to the trio of young troopers becoming his new unit. Bly, at least, managed to hide his own grin behind a well-timed cough.)

“Mission specs, boss?” Wilde asked, striding into the planning room of their ship with two cups of caf. Quinlan accepted the one offered to him, and took a moment to just breathe in the aroma. If nothing else, he kept Wilde around for the man’s ability to fix a perfect cup of caf no matter the circumstances.

“Standard info retrieval, in and out,” Quinlan eventually got around to replying, zooming out the holo-map to better display their target in its entirety. “Top boss of this cartel keeps the most sensitive data locked into servers in his private quarters, at the center of a former Separatist fortress. He’s got his own goon squad of loyalists, assorted hired muscle, and at least three dozen old B-1 battle droids salvaged from basement storage.”

Wilde nodded once, stalking around the edge of the table, his mis-matched eyes taking in every detail of the hologram projection. “But we aren’t going to be seen by any of them, are we.”

“That is the plan, yes.”

Would wonders never cease, Quinlan made full-scale _plans_ these days. Obi-wan smirked every time he heard about them.

“Looks like the most promising entry point would be the east wall - did that damage come from a battle?”

“No, localized earthquake. It’s why the Seppies abandoned this particular base for a more stable spot further up the coastline, and _that_ base saw a battle. But the Republic never bothered to come torch the old one, which meant it stayed intact for this charming fellow to take over.”

“Gotcha. So, over the broken parapets, circle northward to avoid these patrols, and then - third floor windows?”

Quinlan bared his teeth in a grin. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

Wilde grinned back, before draining his caf and heading back out with the empty mug. “I’ll tell Hijink and Gaslight to gear up, then. Oh, and Khaleen called, wants to know when you’re going to swing by for a visit.”

Grim anticipation for the mission drowned beneath the weight of Quinlan’s sudden rush of affection. “We’ll make some time after this. I’ll tell her to expect us in a ten-day.”

The welcome idea of seeing his sort-of-spouse and their son soon kept the Jedi in good humor through the rest of the preparations, all the way up until he needed to settle his mind on the task at hand, as the quartet of spies arrived at their target. Landing their stealth ship in the local forest and hiking the remaining distance got the adrenaline pumping, all three of his men feeling sharp and bright in the Force.

Quinlan carefully gave each one a boost in getting up to the halfway point of the broken wall, where they could use cracks and splits in the stone to finish the rest of their climb. Once on top, all four slipped over to the closest staircase, before ducking between buildings and shadows as they evaded the regular routes of patrolling thugs. Gaslight needed to use a device that emitted fog rather than smoke at one point, but other than that minor distraction, they passed completely unnoticed through the base.

The central building utilized its own independent security system, but only on the ground level entrances. Once again using the Force to lift his team up to their infiltration point, Quinlan waited until they’d gotten in through the windows to leap upwards himself.

A perfect infiltration, he felt pleased to acknowledge, sliding across the narrow sill.

Which, of course, was the moment they encountered something unforeseen.

The blur of lighter shadows moving against the far wall caught Quinlan’s attention; Hijink noticed faster. His silencer-modified blaster lifted, fired - _missed._ The discolored shadows moved too quickly. Wilde leapt over a low table to go for the tackle, and while his padded boots didn’t make too much of a thump upon landing, catching the blur and pinning it to the floor caused a muffled yet _definitely_ noticeable racket.

To the left, light flickered on through a cracked door.

A few moments, a grumbling, portly individual shoved it open, scowling into the darkness with half-lidded eyes. “Boy,” he rumbled, clearly still half-asleep, “Get your scrawny backside back in here before I turn your skin darker blue than usual."

Silence.

Growling beneath his breath, the man took a step further from his bedroom door. “I _said-”_

Gaslight slid into the space behind him, stuck a sedative dart between folds of flesh, and let the man wobble before crashing to the floor. “Sorry, boss.”

“No problem,” Quinlan murmured, emerging from his own hiding place. “Not like he saw you, anyway.” With that, he approached the spot on the floor where Wilde still laid, a much smaller and scrawnier individual pinned in his grasp, both of them silently panicking.

Quinlan crouched, knocked a gloved knuckle against his second in command’s helmet. “Pretty sure you can let him go now, vod.”

Grateful for the instruction, Wilde relaxed and pulled back, rolling to get to his feet. The kid who’d been caught beneath him didn’t move.

Pantoran, if the pale skin and faint glimmers of gold just visible from the bedroom’s light were anything to go by. Underfed, judging by the stick-thin arms and washboard ribs. And _definitely_ not going to be left behind, considering he only had a blanket tied around his waist for clothing.

“Hijink, go find our data,” Quinlan murmured, forcing his voice to remain calm and his body language relaxed. “Gaslight, keep watch. Wilde, gimme the smallest cloud-weave tarp in your pack, would ya?” Normally used to hide bodies until they could be disposed of, or equipment their team didn’t need anyone stumbling across, the cloud-weave was a uniquely crafted camouflage material they always kept a few rolls of onhand. Wilde rustled through his bag for a moment before emerging with a square that unfolded to six by six feet. He thankfully wasn’t foolish enough to toss it over, but also made sure to keep out of arm’s reach of the boy when he stepped around to Quinlan’s side.

As for the kid himself, he stayed absolutely silent, sitting up with wide eyes when Quinlan gestured, and accepting the cloth draped and wrapped around him. “We’ll get you someplace safe, youngling,” the Jedi murmured, securing the last fold. “Worlds better than _him,_ anyway.”

“Data located, boss,” Hijink called softly, busy at a console on the opposite wall. “Download initiating.”

“Still all clear,” Gaslight added, by the main door.

“New orders?” Wilde asked, still standing beside Quinlan and the kid.

“We bug out as soon as the download’s complete. Data is first priority-” a nod towards the boy, “-but he’s second. Silent exit if we can, but go for rapidfire retreat if we’re spotted, speed over stealth. Call for the ship as soon as we’re clear of the walls.”

“Gotcha, boss.”


	3. Torrent Blue and Thunder Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “-the _kid,_ Echo! That little no-name one, did someone check his nest?!”
> 
> _Oh, sithing hells._ No, Echo _hadn’t_ checked, and he’d lay odds against anyone else having done so either, what with the Imperial Star Destroyer that dropped out of hyperspace practically on top of their Relief Corps cruiser and _opened fire._

_Torrent Blue_

“Echo- Echo, wait-”

“Can’t,” Echo bit back, hauling his concussed di’kut of a vod around a corner. “The detonators don’t have much time left on ‘em, we need to go now-”

“-the _kid,_ Echo! That little no-name one, did someone check his nest?!”

_Oh, sithing hells._ No, Echo _hadn’t_ checked, and he’d lay odds against anyone else having done so either, what with the Imperial Star Destroyer that dropped out of hyperspace practically on top of their Relief Corps cruiser and _opened fire._

Arriving at the last remaining bank of escape pods, Echo chucked his idiot into one headfirst. The handful of refugees already inside reached, caught, and settled Fives as best they could, the woman at the helm already firing up their launch sequence. “Go as soon as the engines start to blow, don’t wait for me!”

Despite what he’d been saying just thirty seconds before, Fives struggled to sit up and reach for him. “Echo?!”

Ignoring the Citadel flashbacks stirring at the back of his brain, the ARC didn’t hold still long enough to repeat himself. He ran at top speed, skidded and slid around corners back towards the heart of the ship, past the cabins used by the escaped prisoners they’d been transporting, towards one electrical closet in particular.

_(He’d been going through a maintenance check, not his assigned duty but a nervous tic, when he nearly stepped on the toddler curled up amidst the tubes and wires._

_“Little squirt did that on our last transport, too,” one of the newly freed prisoners mentioned, standing to accept the squirming kid when Echo brought him into the common room. “Guess his parent must’ve been an engineer, or a technician or something.”_

_“You guess?”_

_“Yeah. Dunno for certain. They were one of the ones who didn’t make it out; somebody managed to scoop up the squirt during the jailbreak, and now we’re just taking turns making sure he eats and gets changed.”)_

Left, second right, center of the corridor - Echo yanked open the closet door, and over the ship’s blaring alarms he nevertheless heard a toddler’s panicked wailing. Swearing, he wiggled into the mess of sparking circuits to snag a little foot and tug the baby togruta out into the open. Thankfully, the kid quieted down a bit when he saw it was Echo doing the tugging, but even so he kept on crying as the clone booked it back towards the escape pods.

The sudden addition of blaster fire did _not_ make things easier.

His cursing going up a level in profanity, Echo dropped to slide through an intersection, below where invading stormtroopers typically aimed, and made it to the opposite side before they could adjust. Rolling to get back to his feet, the clone kept both arms curled securely around his passenger, determined to protect the kid from any stray plasma even if that meant he couldn’t shoot back. Despite being far removed from the ship’s engines and their jerry-rigged self-destruct mechanism, he could almost hear the countdown of the timers: _t-minus twelve seconds..._

The deck beneath his feet started to quiver just as Echo reached the pods; all but the very last were sealed and ready to launch, as per protocol. He sprinted past the one containing Fives, mentally apologizing but unwilling to risk delaying them by trying to get in. _Eight, seven, six..._

Someone had been good enough to get the final pod prepped, even if they didn’t wait within. All Echo had to do was seal the airlock door-

_-three-_

-fling himself at the control panel-

_-two-_

-hit the launch button-

_-one-!_

-and brace himself as the pod shot away into space, just in time. Shockwaves from the explosion rattled him and the kid both, eliciting a new round of wails, but Echo managed to get both of them strapped into a seat before hitting the atmosphere of the moon below. After that, he could only pray to anything that would listen: _Please get us down safe, please keep Fives alive, please let that detonation have been enough of a distraction for the Imps-_

A muffled snuffle at his neck preceded tiny fingers poking at Echo’s helmet. He couldn’t risk taking it off, moments before a crash landing, but he at least readjusted his own hands to let the kid grip his thumb. The pod’s shaking got worse, the transparisteel window went all different shades of burning red and orange, and then there was nothing but blue.

...

...thankfully, blue _vegetation,_ rather than blue water. Important distinction, that. Especially since it meant they _survived._

They survived.

Echo sat in the escape pod for a long time, blinking at the teal blue foliage smooshed against the window with sunlight barely sneaking through, before that fact finally settled in his head. Even then, he probably would’ve stayed put a while longer, head throbbing from getting smacked against the wall a few times... if not for the eventual, inevitable squirming of a toddler who needed to use the ‘fresher. Holding back a hiss of pain, Echo got himself and the kid disentangled, staggered over to slide open the pod’s airlock, and blearily considered how best to assist. 

His passenger got tired of waiting.

“Aw, hell,” the clone muttered, helmet filters blocking the smell but not the sound of warm liquid suddenly being released. “Suppose I should be grateful you didn’t have to do the other one, at least."

The toddler in his arms giggled.

An old lecture from Ahsoka back in the old days meant Echo understood, more or less, the basic developmental process for togruta montrals (and why poking them wasn’t appreciated even when Jedi padawans were _not_ going through growth spurts, thank you Fives). So, little no-name looked to be around one standard years old, which meant 1. Able to briefly toddle on his feet but still reliant on crawling, 2. Still having issues with things like object permanence, and 3. Could discern ambient sound, but nothing long distance yet, and not likely to try more than basic noises of his own.

Those facts led to some simple conclusions on Echo’s part: 1. Not to let the kid out of his sight in case those chubby little legs carried him into trouble, 2. Make sure _he_ stayed in the _kid’s_ sight so there were no breakdowns over the perception of being left alone, and 3. Swearing would not later be repeated and therefore couldn’t get him into trouble.

“This is gonna be fun, huh,” Echo muttered, after locating some emergency blankets to use as stand-in towels. “You, me, this karking huge forest, and no other escape pods in sight. Fun fun.”

“Fah-ah,” the kid agreed.

“Then again, I bet you’ll be a better conversationalist than Fives, especially considering he went and got himself a concussion without his helmet on,” the man continued. “I usually want to hit him over the head with a datapad even when he _isn’t_ mentally handicapped.

“Habab.”

_“Exactly._ And he tries to tell people _I’m_ the reckless one.” A brief memory of picking up an energy shield and running for the ship’s ramp flashed into mind. Echo firmly stamped it down before he could get caught up in what followed.

“Hssh-fuh.”

Pausing once he finished clean-up, Echo sat back on his heels to consider the toddler attempting to nom his own miniature lekku. “...we’re still going to try and find a record of you, of your name, but how ‘bout I call you Sixer for now? Since you’re doing a great job of replacing Fives at the moment and all.”

Newly dubbed Sixer squealed and tossed his hands up in the air.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

_Thunder Red_

“We got all of them?”

“Yes, Grey. Each youngling accounted for.” Depa turned a tired smile on him, and Grey responded in kind, reaching to give her shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze. They’d feared the worst, after getting an emergency transmission that the Empire’s Inquisitors were closing in on one of the hidden Nurseries, a staging point for Force-Sensitive children and their families to be brought to safety in the heart of Alliance territory. Grey hadn’t hesitated in running alongside his Jedi for the nearest hangar bay, and commandeering the fastest ship present. Even then, they’d just barely arrived in time to cut down the first Inquisitor, seal the Nursery doors against reinforcements, and lead twenty terrified civilians out the emergency exit.

But, barely or not, they succeeded.

Eight younglings between one and five years old, accompanied by parents and siblings and in one case a grandparent, all safely stowed away in their ship as Grey flew back to Thunder Home. Where she’d dropped in the co-pilot’s seat, Depa allowed her mask to fall, fingers shaking slightly from how close a call it had been.

Grey shifted his grip from her shoulder to her hand.

After a few minutes, his Jedi’s fingers lost their tremors, and instead neatly slotted with his own.

And a few minutes after _that,_ the cockpit door slid open, heralding the soft _pitter-pat_ of small footsteps. Depa’s eyes opened, and she twisted to look over her shoulder, not letting go of Grey. “Ah. Hello, little Jade.”

A tiny, unimpressed _hmph_ answered her. Grey felt his eyebrows go up, even before a wild mess of red hair appeared at his side, the youngling’s nose just barely clearing the console as she peered suspiciously out the window at hyperspace.

“...sure, make yourself at home, kid,” he couldn’t help but chuckle, when the little girl decided she needed a different angle and just- ducked to crawl under his legs, popping up in the space hemmed in by his and Depa’s linked hands.

“I’m glad to see our narrow escape hasn’t been too terribly traumatizing,” Depa murmured, not making much effort to conceal her own amusement. The girl hummed, still looking out the window. Then, she turned around, looked Grey’s Jedi up and down, and decided to crawl up into her lap.

“Gam’s no comfy,” the kid announced, as she wiggled and pulled herself up Depa’s trousers and over her knees. “Wan’ comfy.”

“Yes, she’s definitely comfy,” Grey agreed. He would know, as often as he’d fallen asleep in recent years with his head pillowed against her thigh while she meditated.

(Apparently Caleb had walked in on them like that once, squinted, declared to open air that he didn’t see anything, and walked right back out. Grey couldn’t stop chuckling when Depa later told him.)

The little girl went _hmph_ at his unsolicited comment, before seizing Depa’s loose hanging robe and tugging it over to serve as a blanket. As for Depa herself, she waited until the child got situated, and then curled her free arm around to anchor the youngling in place. “Rest as long as you’d like, little Jade. I will inform your grandmother if she comes looking.”

Another _hmph._ It didn’t take long for the kid to relax, though, and soon enough she dozed off. Depa absently started running her fingers through wild red hair, gently teasing loose some of the tangles. Grey merely watched, content to just sit as the lights of hyperspace streamed by.


	4. Fern Green, Fulcrum Orange, Spectre Hues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But Mira was Lothal born, and Lothal blessed. If she made it to the nearest mountains, there were places she could hide, supply caches she could borrow from-
> 
> An engine cut through the night. The boy in her arms squirmed. It took Mira a second too long to realize these things were connected.

_Fern Green and Fulcrum Orange_

__

_Whisper-light clicks of hovering droids, the hum and curl of pain turned power, a rising gleam in the darkness, the hiss-snap of a bright red blade emerging, burning, the kyber screams where once it sang-_

Namil flung herself upright, gasping, clutching at her throat and mouth. Phantom smoke clogged her airways, she couldn’t breathe, _she couldn’t breathe-_

Someone murmured beside her, and then the pads of soft-scale fingers gently pressed against Namil’s own trembling hands. Likewise, a quiet presence in the Force curled around her own, as water smoothed down rough stone. “Yousa okey-dey,” Roo-Roo mumbled, comforting even when half asleep. “Yousa be okey-dey, Nam-Nam, mesa ri’ here.”

Shaking - the dream-vision still simmered sickeningly in the back of her mind - Namil clutched back. Mirialan and gungan curled together on the sleeping pallet, faint starlight slipping through the gap in their tent’s entrance.

A couple minutes later, the gap briefly widened, letting a tall figure slip through. “Girls?” Roo-Roo had already gone back to sleep. Namil made a soft noise, slipping one arm free of her best friend to reach. Larger fingers linked with her own, darker green against lighter. “Trouble sleeping?”

“Mm-hm.” Her Master’s other hand started to stroke over Namil’s dark hair, and she let her eyes slide close with a grateful sigh. “...I had a nightmare again. A Dark one.”

The older mirialan hummed, her hand pressing a little more firmly. “Was the Darkness around you, or within?”

“I- I don’t know.” Namil shivered. “Felt like it was, everywhere. Getting stronger.”

“That is the nature of Darkness,” her Master whispered. “To shroud and loom, to intimidate with its supposed vastness. But that is also why we root ourselves in the Light, which shines forth, revealing the Dark Side to be nothing more than emptiness, devoid of anything worthwhile.”

Such reassurances were meant for younglings in the creche, not twelve year old newly-chosen padawan learners. But Namil felt comforted nonetheless, and let her Master’s steady presence in the Force soothe her back to sleep. The older mirialan stayed put, watching over the resting girls, as the stars outside turned through the sky. At one point, another shadowed figure stepped into the tent, to crouch beside them and study the scene with eyes older than their years.

“...this is why you chose her,” Ahsoka eventually murmured, when the sky outside began to lighten from the first creeping rays of dawn. “So you both can move past the dreams.”

“Mine are of the past,” answered Barriss, firmly refusing to think of the voice whispering in her ear, the nanite bombs she obtained, even if they never went towards their intended purpose. “Hers could be of the future.”

 _“A_ future. One that can be averted, so long as we trust in the Force, and in each other.” She would know, with a Master who no longer called himself a Jedi, but lived openly with a wife and three children.

And Barriss, who once risked going to her younger friend, and from there her own Master and the Jedi Council, could do nothing but agree.

Outside the tent their new padawans used, a camp sprawled between rolling hills and sparse trees, filled by young troopers fresh from training, older clones with years of campaigns under their belts, and recruits from a hundred worlds eager to stand against the lies and corruption of the Empire. Once the day began in earnest, the pair of Jedi would need to get moving, see to the distribution of dummy munitions, establish their separate base camps for combat simulation. Their shinies would be organized beneath the veterans, to learn tactics and critical thinking, to practice battle panic and reacting in real-time situations. Experience, after all, outranked everything else, no matter their test scores or natural aptitudes.

But until dawn truly arrived, Barriss and Ahsoka would remain with their students, guarding Roo-Roo and Namil’s dreams from any further incursion.

_Spectre Hues_

The wars never touched them.

Lothal’s meager government never actually got around to deciding who they sided with during the first Clone War, for the simple reason that no one ever showed up demanding to know. The Republic remained a far-distant thing, lauded but never truly interacted with; likewise, the Confederacy were considered daring idealists with deep pockets, but there was nothing local to catch their interest, no corruption foul enough to draw forth their promise of something _better._ Lothal never even went with the official “Neutral” option to label themselves; there just wasn’t any point. And the second war, at first, with its resettled lines between Empire and Alliance, didn’t appear any more interested in touching the agricultural world than its predecessor.

That didn’t stop the Force-users.

Mira clutched her blanket-bundled son, one hand over her mouth to muffle the panicked, panting gasps. Ephraim had told her to hide until he caused a distraction, and then he’d rejoin them, he _would-_

Voices spoke up nearby, words spit out by electronic vocoders.

_They were getting closer._

Then a hum started up, grew louder and louder into a roar; a speeder engine, barreling down the road past Mira’s hiding place; she briefly saw it flash by the mouth of the alleyway, a blur of dark blue hair at the helm. There were shouts, a sudden crash - rapid footsteps, heading away, pursued by heavier plastoid boots and blasterfire. The perfect distraction.

Mira wrapped both arms around her son and _ran._

She knew the shadowed city streets like the back of her hand, having played and chased through them her entire childhood. Those subconscious memories proved a blessing, as did the cover of darkness; Mira made it all the way to the edge of town without any sign of pursuit. Few roads extended into the waist-high grass of the Lothali plains, and she ignored all of them, crouching low despite the loss of speed. Infrared equipment would spot her regardless, but with any luck the Inquisitors and their handful of stormtroopers wouldn’t think to scan the grassland outside the city, they’d stay focused on the streets near her home, on the spaceport.

But Mira was Lothal born, and Lothal blessed. If she made it to the nearest mountains, there were places she could hide, supply caches she could borrow from-

An engine cut through the night. The boy in her arms squirmed. It took Mira a second too long to realize these things were connected.

The speeder flattened the grass around them as it cut to a stop directly in front of Mira, the Inquisitor who drove it hopping out almost before the vehicle completely halted. “Clever,” oozed an accented voice that practically oozed Core-world education. “But not clever enough. Hand over the youngling, and I will spare you life. I might even call my counterpart in time to spare your husband’s, as well.”

Mira took a deep breath, and drew the blaster from her hip. The Inquisitor laughed, raising the hilt of what could only be a lightsaber - only to pause, when Mira gently set the weapon against her son’s head.

“We won’t let you take him,” she whispered, voice trembling but hands rock-steady. “We won’t let you _twist_ him. The galaxy is Dark enough as it is.”

“...and here I was informed parents were supposed to want what was best for their children,” the Inquisitor eventually said.

“If the alternative is enduring the same pain you’ve been put through, this is what’s best for him.” Mira specialized in communications; she’d paid attention to every Alliance broadcast, every story shared by a clone who’d lost brothers to the slave chips in their heads, stories shared by Jedi who barely managed to escape Order 66, or the Emperor’s “recruitment” of those who were caught instead of killed. 

Even if Lothal’s government never picked a side, the Bridger family knew where their loyalty would lay.

Face buried in the crook of Mira’s neck and shoulder, her son squirmed again, mumbled something she couldn’t quite discern. Almost in the same moment, the Inquisitor’s helmet tilted back, looking towards the city behind her.

This time, she knew the two things were connected.

When the sound of an engine once again reached her ears, she widened her stance. The Inquisitor snarled, lit their lightsaber, and lunged. Mira hurled herself to the side before that burning blade could spear through her exposed face; she rolled through the grass, cushioning her son, and came up in a crouch with the blaster turned towards their pursuer. And yet, they weren’t pursued; from the gunship above them, decorated with the painted image of a single lightsaber blocking against four others, half a dozen people in decorated armor opened fire.

The Inquisitor’s weapon moved in a blur, a spinning weave of red light too fast for Mira to follow, each movement tossing away the incoming blaster bolts. A few landed near her, too close for comfort, so the woman pushed herself upright and tried to run again. The gun ship above shifted position, drawing attention away from her, as a figure in robes dropped out the opposite side of the shooting soldiers. A blue lightsaber sprung to life, flew through the air towards her- Mira gasped, stumbling to a stop-

Blue intercepted red, a split second before the Inquisitor’s own hurled blade could take Mira’s head off. She flinched away from the point of impact, even as both weapons were yanked back to the Jedi’s outstretched hands.

In the flattened grass, the Inquisitor fell, numerous plasma-heated holes punched through black armor.

Mira sank to her knees.

She almost didn’t notice the gunship dropping to land, or her ruffled husband practically falling out of it in his haste, only to be caught by another robed figure. She kept staring at the Inquisitor’s body, at least until a remarkably young, concerned face filled her vision.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” The Jedi asked. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen standard. “Is your son hurt?”

Sucking in a shaky breath, Mira finally unwrapped the blankets, letting her toddler finally squirm his way into open air, pouting at having missed all the excitement. Short blue bangs bounced as he turned to stare at the Jedi, who blinked and stared back.

“Mira!” Ephraim staggered to a stop beside him, dropping to kneel and start patting her up and down, checking for injuries. A few soldiers gathered around, their helmets and weapons looking out across the grassland, keeping watch. The second robed figure, a human woman with golden marks upon her face, stepped up to rest a hand on the younger Jedi’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Mira whispered, as Ephraim rested his forehead against her temple, as Ezra began to babble and reach for the teenage Jedi, as the older one smiled at them in a way that promised safety. “We’re alright.”


End file.
